~ The Christmas Gift ~

For the "Family" prompt

-o-o-o-

Molly had never been so embarrassed in her life, because really: fainting? In this day and age? And during one's in-laws' elaborate and long-planned Christmas party, their home crowded with family and friends who'd either never met one or had not seen one since the day of one's September wedding to the family's celebrated and somewhat infamous younger son?

Their less celebrated (but probably even more infamous) older son was attempting to clear the library, adjuring the company to "give her some air, please," and John, instantly transforming from holiday reveler to brisk army doctor, directed, "Careful! Lay her here on the sofa, Sherlock. Mary, my bag's in the car-"

"I'll go get it," said a calm voice - Anthea's, Molly thought.

Then she was aware of being gently laid full length on the aforementioned sofa, her legs efficiently lifted and a fat cushion placed beneath (...restore blood flow to the brain by raising the patient's legs above heart level — about 12 inches or 30 centimeters...), comfortable, but bereft of the arms that had caught her up with such startled alacrity when her vision had relentlessly faded to black. The fingers of her left hand still retained the sensation of scrabbling desperately at his coat sleeve, just before her knees had given way.

She now tried to open her eyes, but that was a mistake, the room was still spinning. She closed them again with an almost involuntary sob: "Sherlock!"

"I'm here! " he said, his voice harsh, the edge of the sofa dipping as he perched beside her. He took her hand.

"Sorry. So sorry," she managed in a miserable half-whisper.

"Quiet! You've nothing to be sorry about. But it was ridiculous to come tonight!"

John growled an admonitive, " Sherlock! ", but it was unnecessary, at least on her account. There was a certain tension in the hand that held hers, the thumb brushing against her pulse, and a fearful tenderness in the other, laid against her cheek.

But he went on, working himself up in all-too-typical Sherlock fashion. "You know I'm right, John, she told us she'd been on double shifts for a damned week and the whole of Bart's down with that flu - probably has it herself now and dozens at this party exposed to it! And you can't denywe certainly could've used a day to bloody catch our breaths after that hellish flight back from Grozny. Mycroft's bloody three weeks in Chechnya - in December! "

"Blame me all you like," Mycroft broke in sharply, "but lower your voice! Mummy will feel dreadful enough about this as it is."

And John said, "Yes, shut up and let me get in there to look her over. Mary doesn't think it's flu, and I'm inclined to agree."

"What does Mary -"

"Shush!" said Mary's voice, and to Molly's surprise she almost sounded amused.

Molly dared once more to open her eyes a bit and found that the dizziness was subsiding. Sherlock was looking away, glaring, but sensing his unsatisfactory wife's gaze upon him, swiftly turned back to pin her with his own. "Better? But let John look you over."

He rose and John took his place, Anthea appearing beside him with the medical bag. Molly sighed as John pulled out his stethoscope and sphygmomanometer, wishing she could simply sink beneath the couch, through the floor, and into the ground. Since this particular wish was unlikely to be fulfilled, however, she steeled herself as best she could and gave Dr. Watson a wan smile.

o-o-o

Mycroft and Mary emerged from the library a few minutes later, Mary veering off to trot quickly up the stairs to the bedroom and her suitcase, and Mycroft continuing on to the "drawing room", a large space, replete with the lavish decorations his mother had considered essential for this (thank God) unusual Christmas extravaganza. The majority of the guests were gathered there, including a number that had been ejected from the library. Many eyes looked up at Mycroft as he entered the room, but he ignored them and headed over to where his parents stood by the fireplace.

"How is she?" Mummy demanded as he approached. And then her brows lifted and startled joy suffused her expression. "Myc! Is she-"

" Better ," he said, giving her a Look, highly annoyed that she could still read him so easily, and that she was all too ready to vociferously share her findings. "No fever or other symptoms of flu. Dr. Watson will conclude his examination shortly, I believe. She may even be able to rejoin the gathering, if Sherlock will refrain from badgering her into retiring for the evening."

Mummy, quick on the uptake as ever, schooled her excitement, merely murmuring, "Poor lamb!"

But Father suddenly spoke, tact flying out the window. "Is she… er… preggers ?"

" Vernet! " exclaimed Mummy, giving him a Look of her own - probably more at the undignified idiom than the indiscretion, Mycroft thought morosely.

And the remark had not gone unheard. Excited murmurings sounded from nearby guests. The rumor of the possibility of an imminent Holmes grandchild quickly spread through the room.

Father said, "Well, I only ask because the same thing happened to your mother, or nearly so. Not at a party-"

"No," said Mummy, sounding bitter. "It was in public , we were going to a play, Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus -"

" Cymbeline ," Father corrected.

"It was Titus ! I remember distinctly!" Mummy insisted. " Not my favorite, it was you who wanted to see it. I've always disliked that one, the violence is both sickening and ludicrous."

"Oh, yes. I remember now," Father agreed. "It was a new production, friend of mine directing, he'd given us the tickets, front row as I recall. But your mother became faint as we were about to enter."

"Your fault, Mycroft." Mummy eyed her firstborn, accusingly.

"Apologies," Mycroft sighed. He caught sight of Mary Watson skipping down the last steps to the ground floor and disappearing toward the library.

Father said, "No need for you to apologize, it's not as though it was something you could help!"

"Very true," Mummy said in a milder tone. "And it did get me out of seeing that horrid play. I much prefer musicals, as you know, Myc."

"Yes, I'm well aware-"

"So uplifting-"

"Not that last one!" Father interjected. " Book of Mormon was it? You missed that one, Mycroft. Just as well."

"Yes," Mummy agreed. "The humor seemed a bit off, not at all to my taste. Those Americans! Talented performers, though. The dancing was excellent."

"Got rave reviews." Father shook his head. "May have been the mood we were in, of course. Or something we ate."

"That dreadful lunch at Le Chien Noir! Two Michelin stars my eye. I was never so taken in!"

"Disappointing."

"To put it mildly."

"Dessert was good."

"Chocolate souffle. Yes."

"And don't forget the vanilla sauce-"

"Oh, yes. How could I? Exceptional. At least they can do something right!"

At this point two of the closest eavesdroppers, Cousin Albert and one of Mummy's gardening club friends, both apparently having suffered similar disappointment at the notorious Le Chien Noir at some time in the past, eagerly joined the conversation, and Mycroft was able to more or less tune it out.

He tried not to let his gaze travel toward the library too often or too obviously. As the minutes dragged, he grew more and more annoyed that he had not thought to ask precisely how long it took for an over-the-counter pregnancy test to yield results. It seemed almost too convenient that there was a discreet powder room off the library, and that Mary had brought such an item in her luggage. But perhaps not entirely surprising. Though they'd said nothing, it had been obvious for some time that the Watsons were making efforts toward increasing their progeny.

Finally, Mycroft had had enough. He turned to his mother, ruthlessly interrupting Cousin Albert's observations on the proper way to season a braised artichoke. "Mummy, I'm going back in to check-"

"Isn't that Mary?" his mother exclaimed.

Mycroft whipped around. Mary Watson was at the threshold of the drawing room and, when their eyes met, looked impish and gave a thumbs up.

"Oh. My. God!" breathed Mummy, and Mycroft's arm was forcibly clutched. "Does that mean...?"

Mycroft patted his mother's hand before gently but firmly disengaging it. He looked at her, and at Father, whose eyes were twinkling with delight. Mycroft said, quite calmly, "I think perhaps the three of us should repair to the library to see how your daughter-in-law is faring. Not to mention your younger son."

o-o-o

Mycroft, with his usual diplomacy, closed the library door they'd just entered, and Vernet Holmes thought it just as well they would have a modicum of privacy for at least a few more minutes. Sherlock, sitting on the sofa beside the equally pale but determinedly upright Molly, looked rather as if he'd swallowed a spider.

But Vernet's own much beloved wife rushed forward with all her usual impetuosity. "My dear girl, are you feeling better? And is it indeed true? Sherlock, why do you look like that?"

"She's fine, no reason," Sherlock muttered, quickly vacating the sofa in favor of his mother.

"It is true," Molly said, obviously barely believing it herself.

"Those tests are pretty accurate," John Watson put in cheerily.

A little color came into Molly's cheeks. "It's early days, yet. John thinks I'm not quite a month along."

"First of December," Sherlock blurted, then turned quite red as everyone stared at him.

But Molly, her own pallor now definitely a thing of unlamented memory, said, "Y-yes, that must have been it. The day before you and John flew to Chechnya. Or… um… the night. Actually."

Vernet could not suppress his amusement, though he tried to for Sherlock's sake as the boy came to stand beside him. They watched as mother enveloped daughter-in-law in a warm embrace, saying, "Oh, my dear, what happiness! I never thought… I… Oh! " And suddenly both women were weeping.

"Excuse me," said Mycroft with a roll of his eyes and slipped out of the room again, followed by the faithful Anthea, a noticeable smirk on her pretty face.

John and Mary were grinning at each other, and shared a kiss.

Sherlock merely looked flummoxed.

Vernet patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, son, let them have a moment, they'll be fine presently. But really, what did you expect?"

"I… have no idea," Sherlock said. He turned to his father, looking uncharacteristically helpless. "How… I don't… how are we going to do this?"

Vernet chuckled, but sympathetically. "The same way your mother and I did, I suppose: by the seat of your pants!" Sherlock looked less than satisfied with this flippant summation, so Vernet offered him more immediate comfort: "You know, this is the best Christmas gift you could have given us, or have ever given us, really. Brilliant work, my boy."

And Sherlock, glancing about and absorbing, if not yet entirely understanding, the atmosphere of profound joy that permeated the room, murmured complacently, "Hmm. It is, isn't it?"

~.~